Mirror into the Abyss
by Late to the Party
Summary: Forged in another's likeness, the slow spiral into… madness? No, not madness; clarity. Stripping all away leaves only potential, raw, unlocked… the Child of Bhaal has awoken. AU.
1. I

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.**

**A/N: Themes contained within may disturb some readers. Reader discretion advised. (Occasional typos may also disturb some readers...)**

* * *

I

Blue eyes regarded him.

"Gorion failed me..."

"Yes, Child of Bhaal, he did."

In his captor's clinical gaze, he saw his own reflected. A quiet admission, one he had begun to realise long ago. Lowering his own eyes, he found himself drawn back to the masked one, losing himself in their icy depths. Their owner said nothing.

How had it started? He questioned, as he lost himself in memories… dreams of memories. The knife had not lifted, the scalpel he knew so well, learned from hours, days, months of its caress. His captor's magic had become so familiar it was like his own, searing pain, agony, counted in breathes. Endless breathes. The pain was only passing… those words, always dictated in that same dispassionate lecture were right. He _had_ survived the process.

The first time he had been caged, suspending from a chain he could not see, cramped in darkness, alone. He had not understood. Now he did. Awaking to a table, strapped by leather, he struggled uselessly, then paralysed with fear as his master loomed. His captor was his master; that had taken time to admit. He had resisted, fought against it, but in the end, he had come to realise how futile it was.

No straps held him now; bare-foot, in a loose tunic, ripped and torn, he stood before the masked one. For a moment, he studied the crinkled mask, its veneer in mimicry of a face, capped by metal to cover the ears. Had they been surgically removed, or simply concealed? In their place were two ovals, one for each, pulsing slowly. Wonderingly, he traced each of the creases in his mind, the set of the lips, the shadows, those eyes, always those eyes.

"I'm ready."


	2. II

II

He was young. That is how he had always been described as. A young elf. His wondering stare, his gaping incredulity, his curiosity, his quiet eagerness, those were what he remembered of himself from others. Home… he tried to remember what that was like. Images swirled, thoughts and people, some real, some imagined, drifted to the fore.

Candlekeep. A tomb. A library. A place of books and scrolls. A tomb for innocence, it stayed life's hand, more brutal lessons a whisper of people elsewhere, distant wars and cities gossiped over ale. The gruffest guardsman gentle compared to the thugs of legend. Yes, a childhood encased from the passage of time, hidden from the world. A place without children, where only the old dwelt. In body, in spirit, in mind, its denizens were old. Some were old in each, others only in mind, a few in spirit. A few had a cheery smile, stood higher than their peers in that which they valued most: wisdom. Their knowledge, the learned, covered lifetimes. This was his home, an elf among humans.

Seasons passed without apparent notice; the world turned, the sun lighting by day, the moon at night, the clouds and stars far above, distant and near storms, the seas always the same, always changing. The years went by, and life went on.

The dream was broken.


	3. III

III

'Haphazard' was not the word he would have chosen. 'Methodical' wasn't either. He had his own way of study, of gathering several tomes to him, and putting together the pieces, stringing together a larger puzzle. A source alone wasn't enough; one subject was not enough. To learn, he needed it to be complete, as near as he could. An overview, specifics, half mentioned references, all brought together for one purpose: unity. Life was chaos, but there was order. That is how he saw things, that is what he believed.

Many did not; he was content to be left alone with his studies, occasionally venturing to ask questions from those he considered authorities. It was not something everyone understood.

His captor was different.

There was an… affinity, an… understanding. His master's magic was different; baleful, destructive, but raw. Tempered, overcome, chiselled by will, so unlike his own, and yet… he understood. Its taste, the scent; it was more than these, but he saw the patterns. Order imposed on chaos, rawness sculpted by indomitable strength, singleness of purpose, the focus of a disciplined mind. It had a beginning, an end, means, a purpose. It was… beautiful. It was horrific.

Gorion's magic was not at all like that. It carried with it the calm, reasoned rite of tradition, ordered forms, set, chanted, cast… that which blasted him with the elements was not the repetitive, hierarchical… confines. It obeyed no law devised by man, but was a law unto its own, an authority serving a greater law. It took from the Weave and wove in on itself, drawing strands and enfolding itself in layers, over layers and forced a reality, so unlike anything he'd previously known.

It was… wondrous.

He understood. Simple, complex, he traced it, followed it, the chanting, the gestures, the symbols, the _power_; the mind behind it. Many strands, one source, one channel, one gateway, destruction and creation unleashed. Paradoxically, perfectly, brilliantly, the song of colour, the dance of light. The magic beyond most mere mortals. This contradiction of character, this captor, so cold, so devoid of empathy, that even this casting was deadened, capable of such command, caused beauty seemed beyond him, surreal, absurd.

Nashkel…


	4. IV

IV

They came from him in the night. The darkness that preyed upon the living. Valen was her name, a thief of shadows forcibly converted, servant to a mistress who stood at his captor's side. How had they found him, he demanded once, early on. Such questions were meaningless; his captor was right. There were other matters to attend to. They had stalked him, fell upon him like wolves to a lamb, and as wolves before a lamb, they were helpless. Helpless to stop themselves. As slaves to their nature, his captor explained, as he lay upon the table, rough planks firm against his goosebumped skin, they were nothing, less than nothing. And yet, they had overcome him.

She leaned in close, without breath where breath should be; chill surrounded her as warmth encased the living. Her cool lips never brushed his cheek, never caressed his neck, but her nearness did. She tasted him on the air. His stew was drugged, the first hot meal he'd had in a tenday. The trip from Beregost had been long, too long. Bandits, wolves, xvarts… frenzied, maddened xvarts. He had shot one, leaving it lifeless, watching as it breathed its last, watching the light leave its eyes. It was different, killing spiders in Candlekeep, killing them for fear they would not stop growing.

His captor spoke of how foolish superstitions were, condescension the only edge that touched his tone.

Valen's hands were soft, her fingers firm, slender, claw-like, and strong, so strong. How easily she had lifted him, draped across one shoulder, hands and feet bound, a hood tied off at his neck. Had he dreamt it? She felt _wrong_; she was not rough, not like he expected, but seemed to cradle him without cradling. Her mouth near his ear, the unvoiced whispers; reassurances? He did not know, did not remember. He thrashed; she smiled. Dazed, he spun in the dream… everything changed. How far had she carried him?

He awoke to darkness, awoke on the table… light blinding him, the hood yanked free. The loosening cord, the constriction of his throat; those he knew, dimly. She stood by his captor's side, Valen's mistress, and Valen beside her. She scampered away, silent in the shadows. Her mistress seemed cloaked by darkness, as if it hung about her as mist; drug addled, he saw without seeing, reality skewed. Terrible… beauty's pale shade, twisted, no longer what she was, a wrongness… rawness, a power… a hunger more dreadful than his own; a hunger he had not realised, a hunger awoken by his captor.


	5. V

V

He spoke for hours, the masked one. Sometimes he did not speak at all. Silence was as much a companion as words were. Dull, monotonous, the drone, the ever-flowing stream of knowledge, instruction. It allowed no questions, no retorts, the magic that frayed and tugged at the fabric of his being, loosening, flaying, tearing, coaxing… parting. The scalpel meant nothing; the pain, at first so searing, a slap to wake him, to build him. Thresholds, limits, the potential… tapping, unlocking, probing… torture? He didn't understand at first, hadn't known what the masked one was doing. Preparing… conditioning, readying…

One by one, the blocks were broken, reducing what he was taught, what he believed, dissolving his prejudices, his outlook. All that was left was raw self, to be sculpted, moulded, reformed, like the magic. Order… chaos… meaningless. The will of one imposed upon another. Strength beyond his own, yet nothing compared to the strength he possessed. A paradox? Somehow, he understood. The endless instruction, the purpose… always a purpose, always an end.

Those taken died screaming. The magic tore through them, siphoning their life, transferring their energy unto him. He felt as their life leeched away, ebbing into his, restoring him. The pain, neither delicate nor exquisite, was precise, cold, placed to strike the depths. 'Bombarding' was a word he ascribed to it at first, but now he saw the systematic, methodical approach. He saw as he was broken down, piece by piece, one area than another.


	6. VI

VI

Coldness. The chill of night, of darkness without reprieve, hidden from the moon, from the natural passing of time. He swung suspended in the cage; he never claimed it as 'his'; such possessions were meaningless, his captor taught. Nothing mattered. His tunic, bloodied and torn, was a mere afterthought, a comfort blanket to be stripped from him and returned when it no longer mattered. The days and nights under the knife meant nothing; keys to a lock, his blocked potential. Pain called out to it, to the shadow hidden in his depths, the monster that awaited, the monster he hadn't known was there. Bhaal. Bhaal's shade, the Lord of Murder wanting to return, a seed birthed within him.

He had learnt the hard way. At first, he refused to believe. Then later, he saw the futility. Sometimes drugged, sometimes clear, he experienced visions, was shown visions. Visions birthed from words, from magic, from dreams, from reality. He was shown his soul, reflected back at him, the truth of what he was. A dead god's spawn. He saw the value of a soul, was shown it, learnt it. The dead continued to mouth, the living selling their souls, their life-energy taken, stolen. A condemned, desperate man bartered his soul to whatever god offered salvation, here or in whatever plane he travelled to; there were many desperate men. Their eyes, frenzied, wild, cursed uselessly; the masked one paid no heed, and cast his magics as they were held in man-sized bell-jars. The spell was always the same. A parting of soul from the body.

Guilt was an irrelevance; something that his captor broke down. Simple truth, not taunts, that had his potential been unlocked, his power would have stopped this, had he the will to use it. He did not, and until he had, the masked one would do as he pleased.


	7. VII

VII

She was a clone. An elf, like himself, a lady like no other. She was naked. A serenity, a self possession, an intelligence and vacancy. Something was missing. A soul. She was flawless, perfect in every way but this. She was discarded. The magic that ended her was from his lips, not the masked one's. It had been a lesson, a simple instruction. He had resisted, at first, as his captor predicted, but over time he had come to see her for what she was: a thing, a nothing. She was not even real.

That night, the masked one visited the scalpel on him. Later, he was shown her room. He saw himself in her mirror; blue eyes stared back, haunted. He was without blemish, without scar. Young, perfect.

He watched firm, strong hands hold his reflection's shoulders. The lesson began.


	8. VIII

VIII

Defiled. The compulsion of the geas weighed heavily. The masked one's touch, his magic… the chains… the flesh meant nothing. All that mattered was power. That was the object of the lesson, the state of helplessness an analogy, an illustration. …Defilement…

Chains around his heart, squeezing, tightening. The geas was specific; it would be fulfilled, and another cast in its place, and another, and as many as were needed for him to learn. Then the geas would come off, and then he would do his captor's bidding by his own behest. Learning to use his power.

She was beautiful. Deadly. A shade. She meant nothing.

Valen died screaming. This was her final death. Revenge was the object of this lesson.

He curled up in his cage, battered and torn, inside. The guilt, the shade, feelings… desire… loathing… meaningless, the masked one spoke coldly in his mind. Even in dreams, he instructed. The words were his captor's, but the voice was his own.

All that mattered was power. The power to take revenge, to control one's own destiny. Valen died again, and again under his hand. Each time, a new clone, bred for him to destroy, to toy with. A thing to vent his hate at until he learned the meaninglessness of it. His captor watched and said nothing.

Lesson of the mirror continued.


	9. IX

IX

_Flamerule 1369,_ the entry read, _I have come to understand what it is he seeks._

The writing was his own. A way to focus his thoughts, the masked one implied, a journal, to record his progress. He had not tired of killing Valen, but it was a hollow, empty thing. It did not bring him the solace he thought; torturing her endlessly was not his objective: destroying her was. It was a matter of routine now, the summoning of what lay beneath, his power, focused, directed, channelled… death. A clone meant nothing. It was not real.

Just as he was powerless, so was Valen's mirrors. The masked one kept him from using the Art; always he interrupted, teaching his lessons over and over. The scalpel, the magic, the geas, the soul-parting life-leeching from victims, the mirror, the cage, the dreams, and through it all, the words, the silence. That was how he measured a day, this cycle. He knew exactly when it was coming, exactly what would happen, each limit tested, pushed, each barrier broken down. He… welcomed it.

One day, the cycle was broken. He was left in the cage too long. His captor should have been there; the experiments should have begun. Helplessness filled him, tormented him, the fear of what he had come to know lost before the unknown. Familiarity was a comfort, all he held on to.

"More intruders have entered the complex, master."

The golem spoke, its gravely voice more alive than the lecturing tone he knew so well. Each syllable pronounced, the cutting, deadened edge he lost himself in. His master.

He watched the golem through the bars, suspended high above the darkness below. His cage was a womb, a place of safety, to think, to see, to reflect. From his womb his power was birthed, coaxed to the fore, brought into being, his being, that state of will, where the mind lived. That is where the masked one lived, always in control, where his command of the Art was supreme.

"They must be dealt with."

"Yes master."

"Lower the cage."


	10. X

X

He stood upon the iron bridge, the scaffolding that his captor climbed to reach the cage. The golem waited for more instructions, patient, expecting. A slave created for a purpose. He glanced at the controls, levers to lower or raise the cage. Meaningless. It meant nothing to destroy them. He turned to the golem, "Show me to the mistress' room. It must not be defiled."

"Yes master."

His words were cold, deadened. He followed the golem, unconcerned by the scrap of tunic he wore, walking with purpose, unaware of fear. Another lesson, another test. He understood that.

They came at him, those whose lives' sustained him, their brothers, mere nothings. Things beneath his notice. They trusted the steel they carried, knives, swords, leathers. The power within him surged, blasting them apart at his command. He did not break stride. The golem did nothing to intervene. Its instructions were to open the doors.

He did not count those he killed. He felt the distinction inside of him; this was different to killing clones. Part of him noted it, filing it away for later.

The mistress' room was as he had left it, the mirror taller than he was untouched. His reflection stared back, calm blue eyes unreadable, searching, dispassionate, broken. He was without blemish, radiant in fairness. Colours played in the back, soft greens, light and mid woven with white and blue, golden yellows, the colour of falling leaves, a sanctuary of beauty. A memory. Furniture carved exquisitely, a lady's dressing table, a single bookshelf, a silver fount. Elegant, arced, living wood almost, shaped like vines and leaves, flowers. Too perfect to be real. He turned to the wardrobe. The golem stood at the door waiting.

"Only I am to enter."

"Yes master."

A woodland paradise greeted him. They drew back, these creatures of the forest, spirits in mortal form. Horror painted their widening eyes. The robe he wore was the master's, clasped by a mantel of shifting reds. The light caught it, this relic of another time, a keepsake now meaningless. It was no longer fitted the masked one, meant for a younger time, when his shoulders were not so broad, nor muscled as they were. It meant nothing now, beneath its owner's attention. A lesson its wearer took to heart.

He did not speak, did not break his stride. The tree-spirits cowered, trembling. He paid no attention. As he reached the doorway, one called out, "You are not he!"

Emboldened, another chimed in, "No, you are not the master."

He left the domed chamber and its trees.

The dryads were of no consequence.


	11. XI

XI

The master's room once seemed out of place. Another memory, a recreation. Destroying it would have meant nothing. A bed, unused, a lounging chair, bookshelves filled with tomes… beyond it, a library. Various artefacts; an astrosphere, rugs, a vase, a spyglass… none of which held any meaning. He searched the bedside drawer. He knew this room, had lived in it between cycles. He had bathed here, had his hair washed by dryads, worn finery. He had listened, strapped down upon that table. Were they his memories? It did not matter.

He lifted the old spellbook, a childhood gift. It was familiar. His own. Memories of Nashkel… a child's spells. No, that belonged to another time, another person. He left the book where it was.

Through an antechamber, the portal awaited.

"So you have escaped, godchild. You are as resourceful as I had thought. It is as I anticipated."

He did not answer. A ring of corpses and scattered body parts surrounded his captor, the same that had attacked him in the compound below. Sunlight, the first he had felt in a lifetime, hid itself behind cloud. The wide, open sky brought a surge of terror, but it was distant. He stood unchained before the _him_. He should have been afraid, but to do other than accept the inevitable meant he had not learnt his lessons. But he had, and learned well.

"Will you challenge me?"

The mocking was slight to all others, but not to him. The geas that bound him was stronger than any incantation.

"Master."

Cowled figures arrived.


	12. XII

XII

His was the first to unleash its might, the silent gathering and release of energy, shaped and formed by will. The first grey cowled figure detonated in a shower of golden sparks; already the masked one was invoking his own power. They died in droves. First six, then eight, ten, twelve, a score, all appearing out of the air, all casting their pathetic magics. Their spells shattered against the spheres and barriers that sprung up around the masked one, fizzled before striking the flesh of his captive. Neither faltered. A kaleidoscope of colour raged, a riot of energy.

"Enough. Let this end."

"You will… cease your spellcasting and come with us…"

His breath dried up in him, his blood freezing as he became stone. The young elf watched then shattered the statue without sound.

The masked one spoke with disdain, "I haven't the time for this."

"Our numbers are many; you will be overwhelmed!"

"Enough."

The young elf ceased with his captor's command. The pathetic magics encased them, and they left the outside arches and columns.

"They are deviants."

A fool stood in judgement over them, falsely believing the magic held them. Such bonds were useless. He did not need to utter a single syllable. Against the power within him… even creatures magical would fall. He lifted his eyes and met the fool's. The masked one had not spoken, and so, neither had he.

"Let them rot in Spellhold."

The fool wasn't worth his time.

Everything went black.


	13. XIII

XIII

_Rapture of the Father_. The name by which his soul left him, ripped from his body, an empty vessel, a host…

Away from the interference of the cowls, Spellhold was an asylum, a place of sanctuary, of healing, of a tormentor's paradise. The inmates were not there to be made well, but to be studied, experimented on. Test subjects. The cage was replaced by a cell, but it was not the same. The masked one knew it. But it was another lesson; the cage was meaningless. There was work to be done. The asylum was… adapted for their purposes, equipment portalled in from the old enclave, its wards still active; active enough to stop the cowls from pilfering it, to cleanse the thieves that stormed it from its halls.

Those same thieves Bodhi hunted and trapped, bringing them here. A new room, full of the man-sized bell-jars was readied. New lessons were learned, old ones relearned, but there was a difference in how the days went by now. The scalpel rarely saw the light of day; instead, he simply saw the thieves' die, their life energies leeched into his own. A room for clones was set up, but only as an afterthought. Mostly, he studied the other inmates, listening from his jar as the masked one experimented on them, studying their behaviour and noting down their reactions, their thresholds.

At first, he felt compassion, outrage, empathy, but these were only passing. They were not there to suffer; that was not their purpose: their purpose was to instruct him, for him to learn from them. They were a means to an end. They meant nothing.

His captor was pleased.

"Gorion failed me."

He stood outside the bell-jar, looking up at the other jars that lined the four walls. His was set on the dais, the centrepiece of the room, the purpose for which the chamber was readied. He looked up at the gaze he knew better than his own, at the dispassionate mask of his master.

"Yes, Child of Bhaal, he did."

Such agreement was a sign of how well he learned, how far he had come. Aside from the lectures, his captor rarely spoke _to_ him.

It was time. He understood that; they both did. There would be an end to this. He examined the mask and the monster behind it, the coldness more chilling than any ice, the brokenness. His captor was the same as the clones; what was missing was the soul.

The monster that lurked within himself, the evil, the shadow of Bhaal, would leave him this day. The masked one had shown him his true captor was his dead sire, the entity Gorion had failed to protect him from. These two extremes, these two teachers, so different, shared a common interest: what lay within him. It was never about him, the shell, the host of Bhaal's seed. He too… was a clone, a clone who had no other purpose but to die at Bhaal's hand, that hand reaching through others, slaves to a dead god's will.

He had come to that conclusion some time ago, through the searing pain and unyielding agony, the torment, the defilement, the shame, the hate, the self-loathing, denial, compulsion… it hurt so much. But there was an end. None of it was random. Order from chaos.

He… was nothing, meaningless.

…And that was the biggest lie of all. Unlike the clones his captor made, he had a soul.

"I'm ready."


	14. XIV

XIV

He awoke to darkness. Something was… missing. Gone. Emptiness. A hole. An agony worse than all the torments inflicted on him previously. A sense of loss more painful than any other. A… deadening. He felt cold, so cold. He tried to hold on to the memory of life before, but it was fading. This agony so dull was nothing like the searing hurt. The masked one hadn't lied… the pain was only passing. This…

Slowly, he picked himself up. His rasping breath sounded strange to his own ears. Where was he? Abandoned, left in the jar, the dead surrounding him, each jar holding a thief, a victim. His captor was the true thief.

Everything felt odd, as if he needed to become used to moving again, as if what remained… was a world in grey, a world without focus, or colour. Why was he still alive? This… geas…

He reached inside for the power; he found nothing. Terror filled him. The jar should have shattered under his will alone; it remained standing. Uselessly, he beat his fists against it.

"Hello mousey-mousey," A hidden voice intoned. There was a blur, and something flashed across his vision, a darting shadow. It appeared three times around the jar. He knew its owner…

The jar shattered.


	15. XV

XV

"Irenicus doesn't need you any more," She drawled, leaning in. He stood on his feet, watching her cagily.

"Irenicus?"

"You didn't know?" She laughed, a hollow, bitter sound without life, "The name he wears." She smiled and leaned in closer, so close their faces almost touched. Sheathed in black, only the white of her face and slits across her arms showed. The white of unlife, too pallid for warmth.

She regarded him, then leaned back, uncaring. "You'll fade soon."

"He is not Irenicus; I am."

"…You are strange, godchild. Perhaps you are right." She shrugged, "I'm going to play with you for a while." Her once-beautiful face, twisted into a mockery of its former self, filled with concealed hate, "Let's see what my brother taught you. You have a day, and then I'm going to devour you. I've never tasted the blood of a godspawn before." She edged closer, confidingly, "I know the perfect hunting ground."

The last thing he saw was the flash of her fangs bearing down before the world turned black again.


	16. XVI

XVI

Groggily, he came to. At first, he didn't understand where he was, what had happened. His hand touched his neck, felt the fang marks… he was bitten. She would return to finish the job. He could feel her taint on him, feel her close. It was irrelevant. Looking around, he saw four sets of stairs, a tall platform with a door high above him, where presumably he'd been cast down from. He lay in a pit, battered and bruised. A few moments later, he understood.

He was in a maze.

The soul-taker had taught him well. He remained where he was, sitting and reflecting. High above, Bodhi danced from foot to foot, and hissed.

"You bore me, godling," she mimicked her brother, "I may just come for you now."

He ignored her.

After a while, she scampered away; he dimly registered it. Through the bite, he could still feel her, close by, watching. Despite her words, she was intrigued; he could sense it. She expected him to run, to plead, to beg, to fight. He focused on the words, the gestures, the tone, the chanting; he had no spellbook, but his mind's eye remembered, tracing the masked one as the same spells were repeated over and over, countless times. Habit, routine… he drew from these, from memories ingrained so deep they came to him more easily than breathing. The lectures…

Eight hours later, he rose.


	17. XVII

XVII

Bodhi's fangs closed in, biting into the soft, pale flesh. There was a cry of pain, and a cry of triumph. The body of a young, blue eyed elf crumpled. Bodhi licked her chops, purring.

She stood over the curled up elf as he lay on the dais, in the chamber of jars. It seemed oddly fitting it would end here, where it began his look seemed to say. Then her eyes widened. "But you–"

She never finished. From behind a jar, another elf emerged, mirror in likeness to the one at the vampiress' feet. A glowing blue-green-white-red-orange-yellow sphere left his hands, and left her a cloud of black dust.

He left the clone where it was.


	18. XVIII

XVIII

Irenicus. Shattered One. The name sat uneasily, this mask he wore. The robe, once his captor's, fitted far better. With the theft of his soul, he was now the Shattered One; the one he called 'master' was not. He looked around the chamber. He had the knowledge to spawn a dozen clones. A thousand. He could geas them all. An army in his own likeness. For each that fell, five would replace it. Assassins. All to slay his captor. Here, it was possible. Here… anything was possible. There were still inmates left, still thieves. He could take their souls from them, as his had been taken. He did not have to remain Irenicus.

This was not who he was. Remaining anonymous served him best; this place no longer held any purpose. His fingers wove the arcane gestures, symbols appearing in the air. The jars in the chamber fused, flared white, then blew apart.


	19. XIX

XIX

Legs apart, his face rested in one hand. He stared out into nothingness, not paying a second glance to the reports covering the desk. In his other hand, the tattered remnants of a journal bowed, the script precise, sharp, deliberate. Scrawls. Fragmented thoughts. Order forged from chaos. A picture of what was to come. A glimpse into the mind of the soul-taker.

But no hint of the thief's plans. It did not matter. In his hand, he held his captor's past. The place of his origin… scattered references to _her_, the one he once loved. The masked one had forsaken this place, forsaken him, leaving by means of a portal. A portal that could be reconfigured.

Abandoned apparatus littered the asylum, notes, tomes, research – now his captor had a soul, his soul, there was no more use for it. This, his inheritance, was what was left behind. But first, he had to deal with the inmates before they destroyed everything.

With a single command, he activated the wards, locking the asylum down. He strode from the office. Screaming, cut off abruptly, filled the halls.


	20. XX

XX

Their pain meant nothing. Emptying the dead and dying, the golems obeyed his commands. His captor found them of mild interest, test subjects, but like his captor, he had no more use for them. They were a minor inconvenience, one he had removed. There were few left. Those he might have spared were already dead, ruined by his master's hand. A girl who saw the planes, a mad gnome convinced of his own superiority. An elf terrified of canines. It was a mercy putting them out of their misery.

The lessons sounded in his head. Each had strength of a sort, but now they were dead. Spellhold was empty, silent. He could begin his experiments.


	21. XXI

XXI

_Hammer 1370_, the entry read, written in his own hand, sharp, precise strokes, _Time has no meaning here. Each day, a part of me dies. My resolve grows, my focus sharpening. I see clearly now. My goal is within sight. Fear, pain, hurt, love, joy; these things no longer cloud my vision. I have learnt so much. There is so more to learn. A lifetime of knowledge. Had I but had this drive as a child. Years squandered. I try to think back, but I see only grey. Distant memories turn to mist, outlines and shapes obscured. I cannot see backwards, but that does not matter. All that matters is revenge, the power to take back what is mine. And I will have it._


	22. XXII

XXII

She was perfect, complete. A soul…

"Joneleth?"

The half breathed, whispered word stung, hurting her. She stared at him.

"No, you are not my Joneleth…"

He stood before the stone heads, wider than a giant's body, and far older than anything he had known. The ancient wards around Suldanessellar had diverted the portal, guiding him here instead. His presence had not gone unnoticed. Now he faced her; she had spoken to his back, and as realisation dawned, he turned. Her gasp was audible. He knew her well, this the original, the progenitor. Hesitating, she sensed his recognition, uncertainty ruling her.

"You are not him…" she repeated wonderingly, fear and awe playing across her words and gaze. "I see him on you, his robe, his manner… Who are you?"

For a long time, he did not answer. She stood tense, poised to react, awaiting his strike. He did not.

"I am his heir, his creation." He looked straight into her widening gaze, "your legacy."

Her cry resounded through the clearing.


	23. XXIII

XXIII

He knelt before the Tree of Life, his queen's arms around him. She cradled his head as she addressed her plea, crying up into the branches, weeping openly. Serenely, she kept her inner feelings, her anguish, despair, torment and horror veiled; she begged, bartered, challenged. Her gods were silent.

Tearful, she turned to him, languishing in his silken platinum locks, almost white in the canopy's light. Her eyes shone with her unspoken promise, a vow that she would not let this mistake be repeated. _Never again_, her heart whispered, her slender hands gripping his cheeks. The soft folds of her robe fell around them, as if somehow, she could shelter him.

His blue eyes were cold, deadened. She pulled him to her bosom, her composure trembling, cracking. Dropping to her own knees with infinite grace, she gazed into his vacant stare, and took his hands in her own. Slowly, she announced her choice. If her gods would not renounce their decision, there was but one thing left to give: herself.

The reflection she saw looking back at her was herself, cast across time, in the dazzling blue eyes of another, a mage whose power was matched only by his ambition, for whom being mortal was not enough. Had she herself been mortal, would it have been different? This child stared back at her, waiting, dying. Expectant. It broke her heart. Joneleth had broken her the first time, her judgement pronounced an end to more than just his soul; it had torn her heart in two. She had remained celibate since then, unwilling to accept another, any other. Elhan loved her, worshipped her as queen, his taking the form of respect; Demin would 'counsel' her, if she would permit the priestess to offer comfort.

She read what was in his look: he was waiting to die. He had accepted the inevitable far more readily than Joneleth, but he was not her Joneleth. She looked into his eyes. Had the gods given her another chance?

He understood. He saw it in her gaze. Gently, he refused it. She couldn't stand his eyes any longer and drew him to her, staring up at the Tree. How many speeches had she recited in her mind, in her heart? If only Joneleth had used those years to _earn_ his way home, to her… she could have loved him again, longed to love him again… a terrible punishment, for a terrible crime… she couldn't just condemn him, not without offering him a chance at redemption… was this his answer? This… child… Seldarine, what had she done? What had _he_ done? With but a glimpse into the boy's mind, she had seen torments and torture, such darkness…

She held him, vowing never to let go, not until he was restored. How long had it been since he'd felt another's arms around him, felt the warmth of another living being? How long had he suffered? How much longer would he have to suffer? Fury boiled within her; would she defy her gods for the sake of this one boy? She felt his cold form in her hands; yes, she realised in her heart, to prevent another… 'Irenicus'.

Finally, her gods answered.


	24. XXIV

XIV

"_Give him back his soul,"_ she pleaded, _"undo this wrong. Oakfather…"_

Instead, they gave him the soul they had taken, the one who had taken his. It was not what she wanted, and yet, it filled her with happiness. He was still so young, so very young… When she looked at him, she did not see the monster her love had become, not the Bhaalchild her Father warned her of; she saw a broken young man in need of guidance, her guidance, and peace. Suldanessellar would provide that solace, that sanctuary. Here, he would be safe.

She would teach him the ways of her Father, show him the path of Rillifane Rallathil and the Seldarine. She would not make the same mistake again. She would turn aside his destiny of bloodshed and murder, bring good out of the evil done to him. She would earn her repentance and he would know her love and the love of her people. He would be their son, first out of all of them, and when he was older, he would claim his place beside her, their prince. The Tree would bless them. For the first time since Joneleth left her, she smiled.


	25. XXV

XV

As the last one died, Irenicus stepped into the hells. Sarevok's smouldering armour wafted a trail of smoke; all that remained was a blackened husk, a shell. Amelyssan died screaming in Saradush. Bhaal's throne awaited. Not even the Solar would stand in his way now.

Sarevok's parting cry still echoed. _"Fear me, the new Lord of Murder."_

Sarevok was a fool; they all were. The spoilt godlings born to power could never master it as he had. The time of revenge was at hand. The Seldarine would pay.


	26. Epilogue

Epilogue

He stood in robes of white and silvery-green, woven in the shape of vines and leaves. Flaxen-platinum hair locks, straightened, fell to his shoulders crowned by a silver circlet. His fingers wove the magic of the elves, an array of purple, crimson, pink, blue, greens, yellows and whites. Incandescent, radiant. He stood beside the throne, her eyes smiling towards him. On her left stood Elhan, Priestess Demin close by. He looked towards the Tree of Life, his salvation, his birthright. The power within him grew.


End file.
